


Happy Trails Therapy Horse Ranch

by Kedreeva



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Puns, Horses, M/M, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 20:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13643652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: Following a fire that took most of his family, Derek turns up at the Happy Trails therapy horse ranch, where he meets the young, obnoxious son of the owner, Stiles.





	1. Chapter 1

 

            The car that rumbles down their long, long drive is so ridiculously out of place that Stiles actually abandons his chores in the stables to head for the house. By the time he gets there, the sleek, black Camaro is resting at the peak of their looped driveway, windows down, doors locked, and not a soul in sight. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, seeing spoiled rich kids being dragged into the country to try to solve their issues.

            That’s not what their ranch is for, but Stiles understands why his mom takes on these sorts of clients. After all, the therapy work she does for charity won’t pay the bills.

            He lets the bang of the screen door announce his presence, and his mom appears a moment later, with two kids in tow. One of them, when he looks closer, is a young woman, maybe twenty and _definitely_ not the mother of the gorgeous creature standing passively beside her.

            Black hair, fair skin, and pale, pale eyes beneath lashes that rest on the evidence of many sleepless nights. His blue and white checkered shirt hangs loose on him, the sort of loose that says it used to fit before he’d lost the form to fit it properly. His sister - and she _has_ to be his sister, they could practically be twins except the kid’s probably the same age as Stiles - doesn’t look much better off, and Stiles tunes into the conversation without taking his eyes off of the teen.

            “-hasn’t said a word since the fire,” she says, smoothing a hand down the kid’s back. “A friend of mine showed me your webpage, and I thought, you know, he liked horses as a little kid, so it was worth a shot.”

            “Of course,” his mother answers, in that special tone that always lets their clients know that everything is okay and that they are doing the right thing. Stiles hates that tone - it is one of the reasons he can’t be around when she’s working - but he manages not to make a face. “My husband is out of town this week, so I’m pretty much running the place by myself until he gets back. Is there any way-”

            “I can keep an eye on him,” Stiles volunteers, immediately wondering where on earth that word vomit had possibly come from. He _never_ deals with clients, especially not the paying ones, and his mother’s expression says as much. He rolls his eyes. “What? It’s one guy, I think we can manage not to burn the barns down until dad gets back.”

            “Well, if you’re- if you’re sure, Stiles,” his mother says, equal parts relief and confusion. “Maybe you could take Derek back to the stable with you while I speak with Laura about possible arrangements? Just to see what he thinks.”

            “Sure,” Stiles says with a shrug, like it’s no big deal even though he still has six more stalls to muck and as many horses left to groom. Instead of clarifying any of that, he just asks: “So what’s the deal with him? Mute?”

            “He can talk,” Laura assures him, though she is wringing her hands and giving Derek such a doubtful look that Stiles isn’t sure how much she believes her own words. “We- we lost our family, all of our family, in a house fire two months ago and he hasn’t spoken since. He doesn’t go out, barely eats… I find him sitting up in the middle of the night just- just staring.”

            “Can he follow directions?” Stiles asks. “And is it okay to touch him?”

            “Yes, and I think so,” Laura answers. “He isn’t violent, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s just… non-responsive. It’s like he’s just existing.”

            Stiles looks Derek over once, and then shrugs at his mom. “Yeah, I can handle it. Maybe I can show him how to brush Lydia. She’s pretty bombproof for newbie grooming.”

            His mother nods approval, and Stiles reaches out to touch Derek’s shoulder, just the tips of his fingers, to get his attention. As soon as he makes contact, Derek looks up and whatever Stiles had meant to say catches hard in his throat. The guy’s eyes are stunning, focused solely on Stiles. He coughs to clear his throat, and plasters on a smile.

            “Hey,” he says. “My name is Stiles. If it’s okay, I’d like to take you outside for a bit. Show you the stables, and the horses.”

            Derek gives exactly zero indication that he had heard anything Stiles has said, but when Stiles takes a step away, Derek takes a step forward. The girls are practically holding their breath as Stiles walks backward toward the exit, with Derek trailing behind wordlessly. He gives one last look to his mother before opening the door and stepping backward into the sunshine.

            He finds that Laura was right; Derek follows at his heel as they traverse the gravel path down to the huge, red barn. He doesn’t speak, but he obviously hears everything Stiles says to compulsively fill the silence.

            So, as they walk, he tells Derek about the ranch, and how his mother had started the business fresh out of college and managed to make it all work. He talks about how his parents give riding lessons and break in yearling horses for riding and he explains how they offer therapy and rehabilitation services on-site for victims of physical or emotional trauma, but his mom also takes the horses on road trips and visit ill, injured, and disabled people of all ages, especially children.

            “Of course, my mom thinks she’s so incredibly clever for the ranch name. _Happy Trails_ ,” Stiles reminds him as they are reaching the barn. “She cracks up every time she hears someone say they’d like to ride on our happy trails.”

            “It’s dumb,” Derek says as Stiles is pulling open the stable door, and Stiles would have landed on his ass in the dust except that he’s still got both hands on the door handle.

            “What did you just say?” Stiles asks hotly, letting go and moving a little closer, uncertain he’d even heard the mumbled words.

            “I said _it’s dumb_ ,” Derek repeats, enunciating each word carefully, like maybe Stiles is an idiot. His voice cracks a little, scratchy from disuse.

            Before he could think too much about it, Stiles shoves at the center of Derek’s chest, just enough to make him take a step back. “Watch your mouth,” he orders, angrier now at being condescended to; he doesn’t bother disguising the threat in the words at all. This is his home. The name is his mother’s creation.

            Derek just scowls at him, the first expression Stiles has seen him make, and rubs at his chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me? I’m _traumatized._ ”

            “I don’t have to be nice to you if you’re an asshole,” Stiles tells him, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he catches the flicker of a smile that graces just one corner of Derek’s lips. He has to swallow hard and remind himself he’s supposed to be _angry_ , not _aroused._

            “Good,” Derek says softly.

            Stiles straightens up a little at the unexpected praise. “I don’t think that’s how this normally goes,” he says, because it’s _not_ and he has no idea what else to say to that.

            Derek’s gaze drops back to the dust for a minute and Stiles definitely sees that smile edging in again. He wants to be angry, he really does, but all he can think of is what else he would do to see that smile again. He suspects it’s a lot more than he’s willing to admit.

            “Everyone has been treating me like I’m going to break, or like I’m already broken,” Derek admits. “They all want me to _talk about it_ , but I don’t- I don’t want to. I lost my family. I don’t need to be reminded about it every ten minutes. I don’t need to relive it. I don’t need _therapy,_ I just need a fucking _break_ from people.”

            Stiles studies him for a second, and then shrugs. “Good news, then. I don’t do therapy; it’s not my business,” he tells him. “Horses are my business.”

            “And riding happy trails?” Derek asks.

            Although he shoots him a look, Stiles nods. Happy trails are definitely his business, though he’s not about to say it aloud. “Give it a week,” he says. “The name grows on you with every pun you make about it.”

            Derek makes a thoroughly disgusted noise, like just the thought of all the puns that could be made is enough to exhaust him, but he’s smiling as he follows Stiles into the barn and Stiles thinks that maybe this will be all right after all.

 

* * *

 

            They stay in the barn for a long time, long enough for it to seem like Stiles showed Derek all around even though all that happens is Derek wanders up and down the aisle petting horse noses. Stiles grooms out a few horses, one of which is his fiery-red mare, Lydia.

            Of course Stiles keeps an eye on Derek, just to make sure that he doesn’t open any stall doors or wander off down the road alone, but for the most part they ignore one another until a buzz sounds from a high corner of the barn. It’s too far for his mom to call for him, so they installed a com a few years ago.

            “Derek!” he calls, and that tussled head of black hair appears a moment later. “They’re done talking. You can go home.”

            As carefully schooled as Derek’s expression is, Stiles sees the way his shoulder drops a little and those pale eyes go dead. He doesn’t say anything, though, so Stiles just sets his brush aside, pats Lydia on the rump, and starts walking back to the house. Without a word, Derek falls into step beside him, up the winding dirt path and past the sleek, dusty Camaro.

            His mother is waiting for him in the kitchen when they arrive, and Derek moves over to Laura’s side instead, clearly ready to go with her. Ready for Stiles to tell them that he’s fine – as fine as anyone in his situation could possibly be – and that he doesn’t need therapy. That he can go home.

            “How did it go?” his mother asks gently. Laura looks just as interested, and Stiles forces a smile he hopes looks less like surrender than he feels it is.

            “Oh, he’s a regular chatterbox,” Stiles tells them, meeting Derek’s pale gaze. “Talked my ears off the entire time.”

            “You’re hilarious,” his mother says flatly.

            Stiles rolls his eyes, but shrugs. “It was fine, Mom. We looked around the barn, he pet some of the horses. He watched me groom Lydia.”

            Both girls look at Derek, but he just stares at Stiles with wide eyes, like he can’t understand why Stiles isn’t telling them. Or rather, why they didn’t believe him when he __did__ tell them. Stiles just shoots him a smile and enjoys the pink flush that colors his ears in reaction.

            “I know Dad’s gone,” Stiles adds before anyone recovers enough sense to wrap things up. “And you’re traveling in a couple days, but I could keep an eye on him for the rest of the week. Maybe you could give them a discount or something until you can actually work with him.”

            His mother gives him an uncertain look. “I don’t know, Stiles,” she says. He knows that he is putting her on the spot, saying any of this in front of a potential client, but he also knows that whether Derek had said a million words or nothing at all while they were in the barn, he needs something he isn’t currently getting. Something Stiles thinks that, just maybe, he can help him find.

            Stiles isn’t sure why it matters, because clients have never really mattered to him in the past, but this one does. He doesn’t want to see that dead-eyed look on Derek’s face ever again.

            “It’s not a big deal,” Stiles says, shrugging again. “Just a couple days, and he’s pretty quiet har har.” The joke falls a little short of how hilarious it was in his head, so he rolls his eyes into a full-body representation of his exasperation. “I think I can handle babysitting one guy until you and Dad are free again. Come on.”

            It is a few more heartbeats before his mother sighs, and looks to Laura, silently agreeing to Stiles’ offer. Laura takes a deep breath, but nods her understanding.

            “Derek,” Laura says, soft and hesitant, leaning to try to catch his eyes. “Is this something you’d like to try? I don’t… I don’t know what else to do.”

            There are probably questions, Stiles figures Derek probably has a million of them he can’t ask, not without giving away that he’s willing to talk, so Derek doesn’t say anything. He just crosses over to stand beside Stiles before looking up to his sister. She smiles, stark relief evident on her face as she lets out a little sob of laughter.

            “Okay,” she says. “Okay, puppy.” She turns her attention to Stiles’ mother and smiles again. “I think we can do this.”

            Stiles’ mother nods, and nudges him toward the hallway. “Okay then. Why don’t you and Derek go get his stuff, and then you can take him up to one of the rooms. I’ll get Miss Laura on her way.”

            He doesn’t argue, just gently steers Derek out the front door. They trudge out to the Camaro and Derek silently pops the trunk. There isn’t much to grab, just a duffle bag and a backpack. Stiles takes them both, leaving Derek free to accept a hug from his sister. He watches Derek bury his nose in Laura’s shoulder, watches them stand like that for a long moment just soaking one another in, and then Laura kisses the top of his head and the Camaro is rumbling out the way it had come.

            They go together up the stairs and Stiles stands at the landing on top for a moment trying to decide where it’s best for Derek to go. They don’t have anyone else staying – the next live-in client isn’t due for another two weeks – so all of the rooms are open. He decides that the room across the hall from his own is best, in case Derek needs anything.

            “The doors don’t lock,” he says as he sets Derek’s stuff on the bed. “Breakfast is at eight, but I’m getting your ass up at six to come do chores with me, stop making that face.”

            Derek rolls his eyes, but he takes a tentative seat on the edge of the bed and looks askance at Stiles. “You didn’t tell them,” he says.

            Stiles hesitates, not meeting his gaze. He still isn’t sure why he didn’t tell Laura and his mother that Derek could talk. It would have been easy, would have meant another two weeks of peace for him. He probably should have said something, except the look in Derek’s eyes when Stiles had told him he could go home just wasn’t right.

            So he just shakes his head a little, and says: “If you wanted them to know, you’d have told them.” He looks over and finds Derek watching him like he’s an alien, and he can’t help the snort of laughter. “Don’t give me that look. I told you- it’s not my business.”

            “Sounds like I’m your business now,” Derek points out.

            “Yep,” Stiles agrees with a nod.

            “I thought horses were your business,” Derek says.

            Stiles grins. “Horses _are_ my business,” he says. “So if we put you on a horse, you become my business.”

            Derek pales a little. “You want me to go riding?”

            “What’s the matter?” Stiles teases, enjoying the look of trepidation on Derek’s face. There are a lot of people afraid of riding horses, but he’d seen Derek in the barn earlier. He wasn’t scared of the horses. “I thought you wanted to see my happy trails?”

            Derek chokes on his laugh, covering his mouth quickly to keep the sound quiet. “You’re right,” he admits under his breath. “The name does get better.”


	2. Chapter 2

            Stiles pushes a cooling lump of scrambled eggs around his plate, eyes still a little sticky with sleep. Even though he’d said he would get Derek up early, it had been Derek that appeared in his room at quarter to six to inform him that if farmers really did get up before the sun, he was late.

            They had trudged - well, _Stiles_ had trudged - down to the barn and turned a few of the horses out to pasture. Stiles gave Derek a bucket and showed him where to fetch water, and they fed and watered the ones that would be staying in because they were supposed to be worked that afternoon.

            Across from Stiles, his mother is reading the paper and one chair over, at the round table, Derek sits silently in front of his empty plate. He’d eaten what they put in front of him, but had since given no indication of wanting more. It’s awkward and unusual and Stiles finally puts his fork down and pulls his napkin from his lap.

            “We’re going back down,” he announces. “I might put him on a horse.”

            His mother looks up at him like he’s lost his damn mind, and then glances at Derek like maybe he will protest. Derek just stares placidly back at her until she clears her throat. “I'm not sure that's a good idea, he’s only been here a day.”

            “And he's not scared of them at all. We’ll just walk,” Stiles tells her, a little more hotly than he intends. He knows what she’s saying; he doesn’t ride with clients. He doesn’t do __anything__ with clients if he doesn’t have to. "I’m not gonna take him drag racing, mom.“

            A hesitant smile edges onto her lips, and she motions for him to proceed. "Fine. Take a talkie, check in hourly, and Stiles? Take care of him.”

            Stiles smiles back without agreeing to anything, and pushes away from the table. Derek rises without having to be told, and they clear their plates. Stiles loads them and does a quick swipe down of the breakfast dishes and counter space, and then they take off for the barn.

            It’s a beautiful day for riding, the blue sky full of puffy white clouds, a slight breeze ruffling through the leaves. If he was without companionship, this is the sort of day he would take Scott out on a long, hard ride, tracing the outline of their considerably large property until they were both exhausted. Alas.

            When they reach the barn, he leads Derek to a large room with a real door. “This is the tack room,” he explains as he unlocks it. “It’s where we keep all of the riding and grooming supplies. Saddles, bridles, brushes, things like that.”

            He plucks a grey-tan helmet off a peg on a shelf, and holds it out to Derek. “Put that on.”

            “I’m not putting that on,” Derek says, even though he takes the helmet in both hands.

            “You have to,” Stiles says.

            Derek glares at him for a long moment, and then unbuckles the strap and squishes the helmet onto his head like it has personally offended him. Stiles gives him an appraising look, and watches Derek catch sight of himself in the small mirror on the wall. He grimaces, but Stiles doesn’t think he looks that bad.

            “Grab that saddle,” Stiles orders before he can say anything about it.

            Derek sighs, but he easily hefts the saddle Stiles points to, and watches Stiles grab a bridle and reins and herd him out of the tack room. They take all of it to a stall, and Stiles unloads Derek’s arms of the equipment and then bangs on the stall door. A muffled huffing noise precedes a big, reddish horse head coming over the edge of the door. She snuffles at Stiles’ face and lets him scrub along her jawline before she pulls her head away and looks at Derek.

            Stiles watches carefully as Derek holds out a hand to the mare. Lydia snuffles his hand as well, lipping at his skin for treats he doesn’t have. Derek smiles and doesn’t pull his hand away, doesn’t appear afraid of being bitten.

            Stiles can’t help the smile that edges onto his lips. Lydia clearly likes him, and he seems to like her, too. “You met Lydia yesterday,” he says. “She’s probably one of the sweetest horses in our entire stable, and you’re going to ride her today.”

            “I can't ride a horse,” Derek says.

            “You can’t ride a horse or you’ve never ridden a horse?” Stiles asks. “Because almost everyone _can_ ride horses.”

            “I __can__ ride a horse,” Derek argues back. “My sister… that’s why. I rode when I was little. Very little.”

            Stiles chuckles. “Well then you’re better off than most people that come out here. Loads of people have never even seen a real horse. You’ll be fine. I’ll watch over you.”

            He takes a red halter off a peg next to Lydia’s door, and lets himself into the stall. Lydia doesn’t fight when he puts it on her face, or when he leads her out into the hallway. Derek backs away, but he watches with interest as Stiles grabs a lead rope and tethers Lydia to a hook on the wall. He even shuffles over when Stiles motions for him, and helps Stiles place the saddle on her back.

            “She’s… shiny,” he says. She looks over her shoulder at him.

            “She’s clean,” Stiles says as he lets the stirrups down. “I cleaned her stall and gave her a bath yesterday. You saw some of that, actually. That’s what I was doing when you got here. She’s the only horse here that’s actually mine. I mean… Scott is sort of mine, too.”

            “Those are really bad names for horses,” Derek comments, handing over the thin reins and ornate bridle when Stiles holds out his hand.

            “Yeah, well,” he says with a laugh as he exchanges the halter for the bridle. “When I was a kid, a stallion we were training got loose and knocked up two of our mares. They dropped foal two days apart, and my mom said my best friend, Scott, and I could each have one of the babies. Scott was over so much he practically lived here, and he worked summers here for a couple years until he got a place at the local vet. He made me name my horse after my third-grade crush, and he named his horse after himself because he thought it was hilarious whenever anyone called the horse. He’d call back __which one!__ and then laugh his ass off about it.”

            “You were weird kids,” Derek says flatly.

            “Oh shut up, we were awesome,” Stiles counters, testing all the bonds. Lydia wuffs and tosses her head, backing up a step, causing Derek to follow suit. Stiles hides a smile and unhooks the lead rope. “All right, come on.”

            Derek doesn’t comment, just trails a good distance behind Stiles as he leads the horse out the far side of the barn. There is a small lane with dusty, white fences on either side, and Stiles takes them through a gate on the left side. The arena-like area where they stop has a ring of packed dirt and a set of steps and a rack of tools.

            “Over here,” Stiles says, leading Lydia over to the portable stairs. “These will help you get in the saddle a little easier.” When Derek makes it to him, Stiles pats the stirrup. “Put your left foot here, and then grab the pommel – this thing – and use it to pull yourself up. Swing your right foot up and over, and put it on the stirrup on the other side.”

            Derek raised both his eyebrows. “She’ll move.”

            “I’ve got her,” Stiles said, rattling the reins a little. “She might shift, but she won’t take off. I promise.” Reaching out, he lays one hand softly on Derek’s shoulder. “I got you.”

            After a moment of hesitation, looking Stiles up and down, Derek does as he was told. Stiles makes sure he has his first foot solidly in, and holds Lydia steady as Derek hoists himself up and over. She huffs and changes her footing to accommodate the new weight, but otherwise remains standing just like Stiles had said she would. Derek cautiously settles into the saddle with a firm grip on the pommel.

            When he looks at Stiles, it is with wide, amazed eyes. “I’m riding a horse,” he says, mystified.

            Stiles lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Well, you’re- you’re __sitting__ on a horse,” he corrects. “Let’s wait until she takes a step before we call it __riding__.”

 

* * *

 

            Riding a horse turns out to be both easier and more difficult than Derek remembers. The mare beneath him responds to the tiniest of rein twitches, ready to go whatever direction he wants, and the roll of her body as she walks is easy to adapt to. He’d been on a few guided rides with his family, on vacations, but they were few and far between and those horses had really only followed the horse in front of them no matter what he did with the reins.

            Stiles walks him in circles around the practice area for a long time, telling him how to control the horse, and Derek soaks up every word. It’s great. It’s more than great. He hasn’t had control of anything in months, and the horse beneath him has given it to him.

            Eventually, Stiles unclips the lead rope and pats Lydia gently on the rump, and then Derek is riding an unfettered horse and he doesn’t instantly die. His vision goes slightly blurry with how fast his heart is beating, but Lydia simply plods around in a circle and lets him realize he’s fine until he lets go of his death-grip on the pommel.

            “What do you think?” Stiles asks. He’s still standing in the middle of the ring, watching, the lead rope loose in his hands.

            “I’m riding a horse,” Derek replies. A little bit of pride warms in his chest and he straightens up in the saddle some more. He could do this.

            “You are actually riding a horse,” Stiles confirms. “For real this time. Sort of.”

            “Sort of?” Derek echoes, looking between Lydia and Stiles. “I’m pretty sure she’s walking, and I’m sitting on her back.”

            “In a circle, in ring of dirt,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t miss that he is being teased.

            “Then let’s go out,” Derek says, pointing away to the green beyond the end of the fencing.

            “Are you asking me out, Derek?” Stiles says, a little grin playing on his lips. He checks a non-existent watch on his wrist, and Derek rolls his eyes. “That must be a new record.”

            “I hate you,” Derek informs him, though it’s clear he doesn’t mean it.

            “Another record,” Stiles says, but he starts heading for the gate to exit. Lydia turns to follow him out, but she stops the moment Derek tugs back on the reins. Stiles turns back to look, and then meets Derek’s eyes. “Come on, then. You don’t have to get down, but you can’t stay out here alone. Not yet.”

            Stiles opens the gate and clips the lead back onto Lydia’s bridle as she reaches him. Together, they head back into the barn, and Stiles loops her lead over a bar between two stalls. Lydia sighs and assumes what Derek can only believe is a waiting stance.

            As he watches Stiles lead Scott out of his stall, Derek sets the reins onto the edge of the saddle. “So you’ve been doing this your whole life?”

            “This?” Stiles asks, shifting Scott to stand where he can saddle him. “Horses?”

            “I guess,” Derek says. “Therapy horses.”

            “I don’t really do the therapy side,” Stiles tells him. “I mean, I don’t… deal with people. I just take care of the horses.”

            Derek’s brows furrow. “Is that why your mom didn’t want to let you…”

            “Yeah,” Stiles says as he hoists a saddle onto Scott’s back. Scott shifts and looks over his shoulder. “She probably thinks I’ve completely lost it.”

            “You probably have,” Derek agrees solemnly.

            “You’re hilarious,” Stiles tells him. After that they fall silent until Stiles dons a tan-grey helmet of his own, and pulls himself astride the big, dark-brown horse.

            Derek’s heart skips a few beats at how perfectly natural he looks.

            “Time to ride!” Stiles announces with a grin. He should look just as silly as Derek does in a helmet, and it annoys Derek that he does not. It annoys him worse that he actually looks __attractive__ in it.

            It doesn’t take long for Stiles to explain to him the rules of the trail. Their horses are linked by a lead rope that gives Lydia plenty of room to lag behind but not enough to get away from Stiles if need be. By the end, Derek finds he is excited to try.

            Derek watches as Stiles maneuvers them out of the barn. Scott obeys him as if they are one creature instead of two, and Lydia keeps an even pace with them as though she has resigned herself to their destiny. Derek lets her have the reins for the most part, mostly because she’s doing what he wants and Stiles is basically in control anyway. He keeps his attention flickering between Lydia’s neck and Stiles’ back. He can see the shift of muscles beneath Stiles’ shirt, the flex of his arms as he pulls the reins this way or that.

            It’s __entrancing__.

            Too soon, the guiding rails of the lane’s fencing end, and Derek feels like he has to scoop up the reins. Stiles glances over his shoulder to make sure that Derek is okay still, and then points up the gently sloping hill ahead. The thin forest edges up to the fields, and Derek can see a little dirt path.

            “That’s where we’re heading,” Stiles calls. Scott tosses his mane and begins heading for it as though he had understood, but Derek had seen the tiny shift of Stiles’ weight.

            Lydia follows with a loose lead rope and minimal direction, and Derek thinks she probably likes following Scott. Neither beast hesitates at the entrance of the woods, and the bright sunlight turns to wavering dapples between the leaves. Stiles looks like he is hardly paying attention, face upturned as he enjoys the ride, occasionally looking back to check on him.

            Horseback riding is not, he finds, as terrifying as he thought it would be after not having done it for years. Lydia is calm, Scott is calm, and Stiles is nothing short of __ethereal__ as they travel through the forest. His messy hair catches the shimmering sunlight like a halo, and Derek can practically feel the warmth of happiness radiating from him.

            When he says horses are his business, Derek thinks maybe he is lying; they’re not just __business__.

            Judging by the smile Derek can see gracing his delicate features, horses are nothing short of pure joy for him.

            It makes something inside of Derek prickle, makes him want to find other ways to see that smile. It makes him want to be the cause of it, and he finds the thought only scares him a _little_ bit.

 


	3. Chapter 3

            Stiles leads Derek down the easiest trail they have, the one without any sharp turns or quick ups and downs. He keeps track of Lydia as she finds her footing, though he still enjoys the feel of the horse beneath him. They are magnificent beasts, all that muscle and power and grace. He’s pleased beyond words that Derek seems to be taking well to riding, though every time he looks back, Derek is very carefully not looking at him.

            It makes heat flush under his skin, and he keeps his racing heart to himself.

 _It’s a job_ , he reminds himself. His family takes in everyone from toddlers to the elderly to show them the therapy interacting with horses can give.

 _It’s a job_ , he thinks, and that little voice whispers back: _not your job._ People are not his job, have never been his job.

            “Hanging in there?” Stiles calls back, looking over his shoulder. Derek is staring at his reins as if they have become very confusing.

            “Yeah,” Derek says, sounding contemplative. “It’s… easy. I can see why you like it.”

            “Well, this- this isn’t exactly, you know, The Riding Life,” Stiles says with a small laugh. “Going fast? That’s the real thing. When I get Scott going, full-on run, tearing down the tracks… even just going through our back field… you can’t beat that.”

            “That sounds terrifying,” Derek tells him. “How do you stop them when they’re going that fast?”

            “You just pull back on the reins, or to the side,” Stiles says. “They mostly go where their nose is pointed.”

            “They don’t freak out?” Derek asks, looking around them. “They aren’t predators.”

            “Well, _yeah_ ,” Stiles says, shrugging as he turns back to the trail. Scott has lead them true despite not having direction from Stiles; it is one of the things he likes best about Scott. “Sometimes. But they all know these trails. They know what’s going on, and Scott and Lydia are really solid horses, you know? Pretty much nothing scares them.”

            Of course, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, fate decides he must be proven wrong.

            Behind him, there is a startlingly loud rustle of leaves, and a pheasant bursts across the trail in the space between the horses in a panicked flush. Scott tosses his head up, and Stiles is already working to spin him before he can take off with everyone attached.

            It doesn’t matter.

            Lydia lets out a high, panicky noise and tries to back away from Scott so fast it jerks her head. When she cannot get away, Stiles sees the way her weight shifts, the way her hooves dance to _that stance,_ and he knows what’s coming.

            “Lean forward!” he commands loudly to Derek, but it’s already too late. Lydia is rearing up on two hooves a second later, and Derek’s back is hitting the ground with a loud thud as he lets her throw him.

            She stomps in an arc away from him, still attached to Scott, and Derek somehow manages to roll away from her feet without getting kicked. Stiles drags both horses away with commands to Scott, and gets close enough to grab Lydia’s reins.

            “Derek, talk to me,” Stiles says as he spins the horses in circles, trying to get them both under control so their powerful, stamping hooves stop being a danger. “Are you okay?”

            “I’m fine,” Derek rasps out, and Stiles sees that thought he is out of breath, he is already sitting. There’s blood on Derek’s arm, or maybe his hands, droplets staining the dirt.

            Both horses are tossing their heads now, nostrils flaring as they take in the scent of blood and wuffle and talk to one another, calming themselves down as they realize there’s no more threat. “You’re hurt,” Stiles tells Derek, like maybe he hadn’t noticed.

            “I’m fine,” Derek says, clambering to his feet and dusting off his jeans. There’s blood on them, too, and Stiles’ stomach swoops at the sight. It’s a lot of blood.

            “You’re bleeding,” Stiles counters. He knows a little about shock, and if Derek’s been injured badly enough then he might not even feel it.

            “I’m fine,” Derek repeats firmly. He holds up his hands to show Stiles, and there’s no sign of injury. He _looks_ fine. He's _moving_ like he’s fine.

            “Where’s the blood coming from?” The horses finally stand still, and Stiles hops from Scott’s back. Guilt needles at him as he hastily loops their reins to a branch, and goes swiftly to Derek’s side.

            “It’s not,” Derek tells him, jerking his arm away when Stiles touches him. “I said I’m fine.”

            “There’s blood all over the ground, and on your clothes,” Stiles says slowly, brows crunching together. “It came from somewhere.”

            Derek looks over at him, and Stiles can see that there’s something on the tip of his tongue. He looks like an animal- cornered, afraid, but wanting help, wanting to know the one that’s cornered him won’t hurt him. Stiles doesn’t move, can’t hear anything but the breathing of the horses and the pounding of his own heart. He thinks Derek might even be holding his breath.

            “It’s nothing,” Derek breathes out at last. Stiles feels the lie like the cut of a knife, but he doesn’t press for more. “I just banged my elbow, but it’s superficial, just bled a lot. Looks worse than it was, okay? It’s already closed up.”

            For a split second, Stiles wants to tell him it’s not okay. He wants to hear the truth, he wants to see the light of trust in Derek’s eyes. But he just nods. When he takes a step back, Derek takes a step forward, as if bound to him, and they stand there another moment, on the cusp of the something else.

            Then Lydia whinnies her impatience with their mortal affairs, and the moment dissolves into reality as Stiles turns his attention back to the horses. They don’t bother getting back into the saddles. Stiles grabs both sets of reins and makes Derek walk in front of him the entire way back.

            Though he glances back to Stiles several times, Derek never says a word.

 

* * *

 

            It bothers him, more than he cares to admit, that Derek lied to him. He can’t prove it, as Derek really doesn’t have any injuries to speak of - not even a bruise where Stiles is _sure_ he hit his head - but Stiles knows.

 _Something_ happened.

            Derek, for his part, must know that Stiles is upset with him. He doesn’t speak as they unsaddle the horses, and he keeps shooting furtive glances Stiles’ way when he thinks Stiles won’t notice. Stiles does. He ignores it; ignores every glance, every time Derek opens his mouth to say something that is likely an apology he can’t make without having to tell the truth.

            Whatever. It’s not his business, Stiles tells himself.

            Whatever Derek’s hangup is, it’s actually not Stiles’ business.

            Except he __wants__ it to be, and he knows he is angry because it’s not, and that's on him, not on Derek.

            Still, when he instructs Derek how to brush Lydia out before putting her in her stall, it is in clipped, matter-of-fact tones. The warmth that had settled between them from the day previous is gone. A part of him knows that he shouldn’t be angry, that Derek doesn’t __owe__ him the truth or anything.

            He decides he just needs to be angry for a little bit.

            As the latch clicks on Scott’s stall, however, Stiles finds it in himself to let it go. He closes his eyes, counts to ten, and then lets out his breath. “I’m sorry,” he says.

            Behind him, Derek goes stiff and still. “What?” he asks, sounding certain he misheard.

            “I’m sorry,” Stiles repeats. “I’m kind of being a dick right now.”

            “You’re angry,” Derek says. It’s not so much a dismissal as an acknowledgement. He might has well have said __it’s understandable__ , and Stiles doesn’t want that.

            “Not at you,” Stiles replies. “I mean, I __am__ mad at you, but I’m not mad at __you__. I shouldn’t have taken you out that fast.”

            “Okay,” Derek says. When Stiles turns to look at him, Derek is just staring placidly back, without any sign of judgment in his expression.

            “It’s not okay,” Stiles tells him firmly. “I could have gotten you seriously injured. Killed. Lydia could have stomped you to death out there. You could have gotten thrown and cracked your skull open.”

            “I didn’t,” Derek says before Stiles can keep going. “You made me wear a helmet, remember? Next time I’ll just wear elbow pads, too.”

            “Elbow pads,” Stiles echoes, disbelieving that that is the only thing Derek is taking away from this. “You… wait, next time?”

            Derek looks back at him for a moment, and then raises both eyebrows in a way that he doesn’t even need to open his mouth to call Stiles an idiot. “That’s… like, the whole point of this place, right? To get back on the horse?”

            Stiles can feel his face scrunch up as his eyes close. “Did you just- did you just make a joke? A pun?”

            He opens his eyes just in time to see Derek’s sly smile. “Isn’t that also a thing here?”

 

* * *

 

            Stiles scrubs a hand down his face as they walk back to the house. “My mom’s gonna want to know what happened,” Stiles tells him. “And that means she’s probably going to want to whisk us both away to see a doctor, so be prepared… for… Derek?”

            He turns around to see where Derek has stopped, frozen in the middle of the path like a deer in brights. “I can’t,” he rasps out, looking panicked. “I- I can’t go to a doctor, Stiles.”

            “You got thrown from one of our horses,” Stiles explains. “Dude, you kinda have to, especially if you aren’t hurt, because that has to be on paper and stuff.”

            “I __can’t__ , Stiles,” Derek repeats seriously, looking him in the eyes. Stiles isn’t sure what reason Derek could possibly have to look this way, but he looks __terrified__. “I can’t go, I can’t- I’ll run, I’ll just leave if I have to, I’ll-”

            “And go __where,__ exactly?” Stiles says, gesturing to all around them. It’s pastures and open land as far as they can see. “The closest town is, like, half an hour by car.”

            “I can’t!” Derek bursts out, breathing going fast and shallow, and he starts moving away from Stiles like he expects to be attacked.

            Stiles swallows down his own reaction, and holds up both his hands. He knows that look. He’s seen a panic attack before. “Okay,” he agrees. “Derek, okay. I’m not gonna make you go anywhere you don’t want to go. I won’t let anyone else make you go anywhere you don’t want to go, okay?”

            It still takes a few minutes after that, with Derek trying to get his breathing under control and stay upright, before Derek finally calms down enough to nod shakily. “No doctors.”

            “No doctors,” Stiles says. He’ll have to tell his mother at some point, but he figures he can do it when it won’t send Derek into a panic spiral. “But you’re gonna have to be honest with me, Derek. If you feel-”

            “If I’m not fine, I will tell you,” Derek swears. “I will make you call my sister first, if I’m not okay, because we have… special doctors.”

            Whatever __that__ means, Stiles thinks with a little shake of his head. “Well, you’ve still got blood all over your clothes, and my mom’s gonna notice.”

            “We can wash them,” Derek says instantly, like he’s already thought this through. “Right?”

            “Tell the truth- you came from planet make-Stiles’-life-harder, didn’t you,” Stiles quips, but he knuckles tiredly at one eye before nodding. “Yeah, if we can get past my mom without being seen, we can probably dump the evidence.”

            He didn’t mention that his mother would probably investigate why he was suddenly doing his own laundry. It would be a good way to get caught without it being his fault.

            With that tentative and potentially disastrous plan in place, they begin to trudge the rest of the way to the house. Stiles pauses for a listen near the front door, and can hear his mom in the kitchen making lunch. It smells suspiciously like grilled cheese and tomato soup, which she only makes on special occasions.

            He waves Derek up onto the porch. “Basement, get- go left,” Stiles hisses as he opens the front door, grateful he keeps it greased to do his own amounts of sneaking about. "Down the steps.“

            "Where are we going?” Derek whispers back, although he’s following the instructions anyway. Stiles hurries him up with waggling hands. “Stiles!”

            Stiles ignores the exasperation in Derek’s tone, and silently pulls the door shut behind them, hand flapping out to hit the lights. “She has supersonic hearing,” Stiles tells him as they tip-toe down the stairs in their socks, having left their boots outside the front door. “And she’s super nosy about new arrivals.”

            “I’m technically not here as a new arrival yet,” Derek says as he reaches the bottom.

            “Yeah, well, she won’t see it that way, and I was supposed to take care of you. We’re just- over here, yeah,” Stiles tells him, maneuvering him to the large washing machine. Derek is just letting himself be moved around, like he doesn’t get what exactly Stiles’ plan is here, and so Stiles begins tugging at the edge of Derek’s shirt. “We’ll just get all this into the wash.”

            Cottoning on to what Stiles wants, Derek begins to wriggle out of his shirt before Stiles can take it off for him. Stiles’ mouth goes dry as he watches. When Derek looks up, Stiles is just sort of staring, mind shorted out for a second as he stares at Derek’s skin. Derek snaps his fingers, and Stiles looks up to his eyes.

            “Pants, too?” Derek asks, clearly repeating himself.

            Stiles swallows and tries to reboot enough to say something intelligent. “Yeah,” he rasps, and then clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, anything that has blood on it.”

            “Your shirt, then,” Derek says as he starts fiddling with his own belt. Stiles realizes that Derek’s pants are at least one size too large, and Laura’s words echo through him, about Derek not eating much since the fire. Guilt lances through him, because there’s a __reason__ Derek is here, and it’s not… well, it’s probably not _this_.

            “My shirt?” Stiles asks, tearing his eyes away from Derek and looking down. There’s blood on it- not a lot, but definitely blood.

            “From when you checked me out at the barn?” Derek reminds him, holding his clothing in a ball in one hand now. “Don’t you remember?”

            There were a lot of times Stiles checked him out at the barn, but Stiles assumes he means when he was checking for injuries as soon as they got back. He had made Derek take his helmet off, pressed around his head for any sign of pain, looked at Derek’s eyes, at his elbow - there wasn’t even a mark anymore - and made sure he could wiggle all his fingers and toes.

            He was __fine__ as far as Stiles could tell, and that really only irritated him further.

            Instead of answering, Stiles just peels off his own shirt and tosses it into the open washer. Without meeting Derek’s eyes, he grabs the detergent and measures out a small amount. It is the good stuff, the stuff that can get out grass stains and red wine and blood. Derek adds his own clothes to the washer, and Stiles dumps the detergent in, then turns the dial and shuts the lid. The washer hums to life under his hands, and he steps back, mission complete.

            “So, this was a pretty fantastic plan,” Derek says.

            Stiles gives him a weird look because he recognizes that it is sarcasm, but he cannot explain why. It __is__ a good plan, it’s exactly what Derek wanted. They got down here, they got their clothes into the washer, and they… they’re standing alone in the basement mostly-and-half-naked without a change of clothes.

            “It’s possible I didn’t think this through to the actual end,” Stiles admits carefully. “And hey, this was __your__ plan, mister. You just wanted to get my outta my shirt, I see how it is.”

            At that, Derek begins to laugh, and Stiles can’t help but think that the rest of the day has been worth it just to hear that sound.


End file.
